New Players
by Incredibly Cold
Summary: It's the same old game, but this time there's a new player and no one saw them coming. Rating may be subject to change


It was cold out, very cold. The rain was falling fast and hard outside the window, making such a terrible racket as it kept hitting the window that Sherlock thought he might just break the glass so that it would stop. He couldn't do that though, it would make John upset. Sometimes he wished that his army doctor didn't care about ordinary stuff like that, but then again it was what made him so wonderfully him. So, instead of silencing that incessant tapping, he sat down in his chair with the laptop, which he was once again borrowing without permission, to read the blog that had become so very popular. It still brought in a lot of business, even after his faked suicide. Some people seemed to think that his return proved something about him being the genius everyone had originally thought, which of course, it did. They were really very annoying in his opinion, but John, ever the voice of reason, insisted that he take at least some of the cases. They needed the money and giving him something to do aside from watching television (an activity he was now banned from doing at their own home after the time he threw the brand new flat screen out the window) was top priority.

Three years had been a long wait, but it was still kind of nice to be back home. Moriarty was dead now and since his gunmen knew it they didn't bother to kill him or his friends. Being a detective was slower work without the consulting criminal to give him cases, but it was better this way. Who knows what would happen if the man hadn't died up there on that rooftop? He might have killed John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson just for the hell of it. No loose ends that way. He must have really hated loose ends, the reporter woman who had been assisting him as Richard Brooks had been killed not a week after Sherlock Holmes had been pronounced dead. No one cared or noticed that there was a reason for it. It was just another murder. It did mean that many of her stories about him were never published, and for that he was at least a little bit grateful. Besides, he had never liked her anyway.

Speaking of murder, here came a police car, parking in front of the flat. Another case, that was always good. Probably a serial killer too, if Lestrade wanted him. Funny, he hadn't seen anything in the newspapers or anywhere at all really. Maybe it wasn't in London at all, or perhaps the killer was clever when it came to hiding the bodies. Either way, a case was a case and if there _was_ a serial killer then he would take it in a heartbeat. They didn't come up often, and who could ask for something more exciting? He stood, setting the laptop computer down on the table and pulling on his coat and scarf. He considered sending a text to John so that he would know where he had gone when he got back. His flatmate was out doing the shopping.

Well… Why bother him with it until he knew the case was worth taking? He would text later.

Lestrade stopped in the open doorway, looking at Sherlock as if he wasn't sure he should enter before finally stepping inside. He always did that, even after three years. It was better than barging in, he supposed, but it was still completely unnecessary. Sherlock looked him over, taking in all the visible clues before speaking. "There's been a murder, or several actually. The bodies were found at a construction site very recently. It's only been a matter of hours, none of the bodies have yet been identified, but you know there are multiple victims. It must look like a difficult one too if you came to me this quickly." He stepped forward, taking the folder from Lestrade's hands, which he knew contained the current facts about the investigation.

"How do you always do that?" Lestrade didn't look offended, though there was certainly some annoyance there. People didn't like being transparent, even if it was only to him. Well it did save everyone time if he just got down to business, why wait for them to make their point if he already knew what it was?

"Dust in your hair. It's made up of plaster and wood shavings, and isn't on any other part of you which means you were wearing a suit to keep the crime scene clean. A hassle you wouldn't deal with for anything but a murder. It must have just happened or I would already know about it, same with if they had been identified. You wouldn't bother coming to me for one person. No matter how hard the case is, you would at least try to figure it out before that. Did I miss anything?" He really only asked out of courtesy, he knew for a fact that he hadn't. The consulting detective's face remained expressionless as his icy blue eyes looked over the case file.

The number of bodies was unknown, as well as whose they were. Well he had guessed part of it at least. They had been chopped up into pieces, not entirely unusual when hiding the bodies really, except for that the pieces were all very small, none bigger than a two inch cube. There were no traces of tattoos, moles, fingerprints, or any mark that would help identify the bodies. In fact, it seemed that all of their skin was gone. The heads were entirely gone as well, another wise precaution. Faces were recognizable. They had been found earlier this morning at a construction site when the workers were putting up drywall and noticed something inside of it.

"So?" a voice interrupted his thought process. "Will you take the case?"

Sherlock sighed loudly. "Yes I'll take the case detective inspector Lestrade. Take me to the crime scene right now, it's not like I was in the middle of anything." He stormed out the door. People were so annoying sometimes, expecting him to drop everything and do what they wanted. Really, they talked about how bad _his_ manners were, but did they ever take a look at their own?

"What were you in the middle of?" The voice behind him sounded testy but he shouted back at him anyway. Yelling was easier than actually turning around.

"Thinking!"

Well, they wanted him, they could have him. He wasn't going to be courteous, if they wanted that they could find someone else, like John. Which reminded him, he had a text to send.

_Going to a crime scene with Lestrade. The file is on the table, read it when you get back and meet me there._

_-SH_

That's one more thing taken care of, now it was time to solve the case.


End file.
